


when our (crossed) stars are right

by Neffectual



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Consentacles, Crack, Cthulhu Mythos, Eldritch Abominations (Cthulhu Mythos), Fluff, Great Old One Jaskier, Group Sex, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Humor, Jaskier's body is weird, M/M, Minor Angst, Non-Human Genitalia, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oral Sex, Pocket Dimension, Tentacles, Weird Biology, Wolf School (The Witcher), body delight??, geralt's into it, horror fluff, in sort of combination??, it's cute but odd, mouths where mouths shouldn't be, oral handjobs?, whatever the opposite of body horror is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27926503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: Jaskier got used to letting his true form out a little more while he isn't travelling with Geralt. When he gets his apology, he finds himself unwilling to continue telling Geralt a lie. Eventually, Geralt wants to share this with the rest of his pack.aka cthonic Jaskier has enough holes for everyone
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 116
Collections: BIKM Secret Santa Event 2020





	when our (crossed) stars are right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SleepingDragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepingDragons/gifts).



> I apologise unreservedly if this isn't within the guidelines I was given, but hey, it's fun? I think? There's a lot more in the outline, but idk how long this is going to be.
> 
> For the BliKM server Secret Santa.  
> I'm not sorry.

After the mountain, Jaskier had figured he wasn’t going to see Geralt again. The Witcher was many things, but he didn’t tend to renege on his promises, which had, until that point, been to Jaskier’s benefit. Geralt was an incredibly honourable man, and it had been an honour to travel with him, even when he did get grumpy and smell a bit. The way he glowed in the firelight, though, and the way he looked when relaxed over a pint, or in a bath… these were things Jaskier would have trouble forgetting, try as hard as he might. Being with Geralt – no, Jaskier corrected himself, travelling with Geralt – had been an adventure, and one that Jaskier wouldn’t have given up for any reason. But, as it was, he was going to have to continue on alone. Still, it meant he could let a little bit loose, stop keeping Geralt’s hours, stop sleeping on the floor in the woods, and generally eat a bit better. Alone, yes, but possibly with better prospects than he could allow himself when travelling with a companion.

Jaskier had come across in the Conjunction of the Spheres, with all the other riff-raff that various worlds didn’t want. He’d crossed deliberately, looking for a new planet to devour, but found himself rather liking the place, really, and setting down some roots. For an Old God, he was fairly young and new, and these people with their music and spirits and determination to live despite having no dominion over their world… they fed him as nothing ever had. He’d taken many forms throughout the years, but he was best-remembered, in his own, very definite opinion, in the caves under Skellige and by the people who lived above them, where they still carved the octopus into stones and lay them by their doors, to ward their houses, even if they didn’t remember why. But Jaskier remembered; when they built their longboats in his image, when the islands had been home to only the Aen Seidhe, when he had been nothing but the formless dark in the minds of men.

He wasn’t quite ready to go back to that - although this was probably the worst breakup he’d ever had, and they hadn’t even been fucking – because he was renowned throughout the Continent now, not as  the dark beast , but as Jaskier, the bard. For something he’d done, for once, and not because of rumour or happenstance or what he was. He’d created something, not destroyed it, for the first time in the endless aeons that he’d existed, and it was all because of Geralt. Geralt, who didn’t want him anymore. Geralt, who had never been his friend, who had never loved him. Geralt, who thought he was human, but had left him on a mountaintop anyway, heedless of how dangerous that would have been. Of course, Jaskier wasn’t human, so he’d had a leisurely stroll down the mountain, snacked on a couple of bears who hadn’t worked out what he was until it was too late, and been back with Roach to collect his things before it had even got dark. He hadn’t wanted to wait and see if Geralt would change his mind. He knew that wasn’t going to happen.

The first tavern he came to, he’d still been human in guise, despite the new bearskin cloak he wore – pocket dimensions were so useful for things like tanning and weathering hides and furs, took all the time and effort out of the long process – and he’d enjoyed the cheers and the coin, but… his eyes (the two visible in this form, anyway) kept drifting to the table in the back corner, half in shadow, where his Witcher would have been sitting. Not that Geralt had ever stayed for much of his playing, but still, he’d always sort of been there, a gentle presence at the back of Jaskier’s mind, the two of them tethered together. He’d always known where Geralt was – and now he didn’t. He could change that, of course he could, you didn’t become an Elder God without learning how to do that simple bit of trickery, but somehow it didn’t feel right, when Geralt had made it so clear that he was a burden and not wanted. He took their coin, but didn’t stay for the night. Without Geralt by his side, sleep was something he could do without.

There was a second inn, and a third, and a fourth, until they all started blurring together, the pressing stench of humanity, the sense of travelling unseen, despite so many eyes on him, and the distinct lack of Geralt everywhere he went. The lack of Geralt is the worst part about being on the road now, and Jaskier can feel his carefully cultivated humanity slipping away, piece by piece. He’s taller than he was with Geralt, broader, too, eyes just the wrong shade of blue to ever be truly human. He can feel the sharp points of his teeth when he speaks, and isn’t it interesting how his body is shaping itself into something just inhuman enough to go unnoticed in most places? He thinks of Geralt’s fangs, and yellow eyes, and the way his veins run black when he’s taken too many potions, and it’s almost sad how he’d still pass for more human than Geralt, even now. He still passes for human, even now, with his eyes the colour of the night sky, and the yawn of chaos in his voice, and the way his mouth wants to shape a completely different tongue to any spoken on the Continent. Oh, and his tongue is changing, too, but as he doesn’t want to kiss anyone, he doesn’t really think that’s of note.

When the tentacles start to come back in, Jaskier stops visiting the inns so often, starts keeping to the backroads, like Geralt used to, before they travelled together. There’s a lot of things that he thinks would be more similar about him and Geralt now. Not the tentacles, the pocket dimension, the extra eyes and mouths, or the strange humming sound that seemed to follow him wherever he went, of course, just… keeping to himself, staying in the dark, staying out of sight. Of course, he’s probably still too annoying to cope with, and doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, even when the teeth inside are too long and too sharp, and his tongue writhes around them like he used to swim between worlds. Sometimes he nicks his tongue on them, and the blood tastes like time travel.

He supposes he should be past all of this, and that moping around after some man is a little pathetic for something older than the concept of space, but he’s the only one of his kind here, so it’s not like Dagon and Nyarlathotep are going to talk about him behind his back again. Besides, Jaskier figures they, too, would be captivated by Geralt. He smells like the distance between sky and sea, tastes like aeons of ozone, and Jaskier knows that his love would feel like the beating heart of the universe, if it finally loved him back. Being on his own is monstrously lonely, in a way he wasn’t sure he could feel, before Geralt. He’s been worshiped, feared, adored and reviled, but all of that pales in comparison to how it felt to travel at Geralt’s side, how that fuelled and fed him like no devoted followers, whether they cowered or cavorted, ever had. Learning his companionable noises from his disgruntled ones was like learning a new incantation, every time.

He doesn’t really know how long it’s been since the mountain, since the dragon hunt, since Yennefer ripped out Geralt’s slow-beating heart and Geralt turned around to replace it with Jaskier’s strange and misshapen one. He has somewhere between one and three at any particular time, so the metaphor isn’t quite watertight, but one thing he’s learning about being a poet is that accuracy is less important than emotion, and humans seem to place an inordinate amount of weight onto an organ that’s little more than a glorified temporary storage for blood. But he thinks it’s been at least a year, maybe a little more, when he sees Geralt again, and suddenly understands why humans talk about their hearts so much. All of his feel like they shudder to a stop, and he’s aware of his lungs, which isn’t a human feeling at all, aware of his ribcage and how heavy everything inside him is. Seeing Geralt is like taking that gut punch all over again, like losing his voice to the djinn - and also like the first time he flowed into this plane, all bright and clean, and spread over it like spilled ink. Perfect and wonderful and horrible; finally, he understands just what his followers over the years have tried to explain when they attempt to capture his image. And it hurts.

Geralt turns and looks at him, and Jaskier thinks that, if he felt bad before, he feels worse now. Geralt looks awful, like he hasn’t slept properly in months. His armour is falling apart, his hair looks like it’s been clawed at on one side and burned on the other, and there’s a level of defeat in his eyes that Jaskier has only seen twice - once, when he met the Witcher for the first time, and again at the top of that damned mountain. He doesn’t want to go any closer, doesn’t want to get anywhere near him, because he knows he isn’t quite right, not human enough. If Geralt really sees him like this, up close, he’s as likely to slaughter him as to greet him - he’s a monster, pure and simple, and Geralt kills monsters. But Geralt jerks his head towards the door, a clear invitation, and Jaskier can’t let him walk away again, can’t bear to see him go, so he nods, and lets Geralt lead him outside, subtly rearranging himself as best he can to make himself look like the human the Witcher remembers, to echo the scent of a human. He isn’t sure he’s successful, but he tries his best.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, before Jaskier’s teeth have finished sliding back into perfectly human, before his tentacles fully withdraw, and before Jaskier can say anything. “I fucked up.”

“You did,” Jaskier says, coolly, because he might be an unknowable non-Euclidean creature from beyond the stars, but he’s also a poet, so he knows how to be petty.

“Please, I - “ Geralt seems to run out of words, and takes a second to settle himself again, but doesn’t open his mouth again.

Jaskier quirks an eyebrow at him, going to fold his arms over his chest, which is a little difficult with how fast his hearts are beating, how their thudding reverberates through his body like the low thrum of stringed instruments - and Geralt kisses him.

It’s not a bad kiss, from Geralt’s side of things, Jaskier’s pretty sure, but he’s not convinced he acquits himself properly, what with the lack of practice, and the way his tongue wants to fork itself and swipe around Geralt’s mouth, to taste his teeth and carry that memory forever. He doesn’t let it, of course, because he might be a lovesick fool, but he’s not stupid. When they part, Geralt looks at him for a moment, then huffs out a sigh.

“I’m sorry. That’s all I had to say. Good fortune to you.”

Without thinking, Jaskier reaches out to grab his arm as Geralt turns to go, and yanks him closer, using all his unearthly strength to hold the Witcher close to him. He thinks he actually sees Geralt stumble a little, which is frankly adorable.

“Will you kiss me again?” he asks, and watches the gold of Geralt’s eyes vanish as his pupils expand with lust. “You look like a cat who just found a mouse.”

“Do you want me to?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier smiles, letting all the lasciviousness he’s kept inside since the mountain slither out of him. And then he remembers that he needs to tell the truth.

“Wait.”

Geralt takes the hand to his chest, holding him both close and at a distance at the same time, remarkably well for a man who Jaskier once saw lift half a barn. That’s something Jaskier’s going to remember, because if Geralt likes his strength, Jaskier’s going to make sure he feels it as often as possible. Tentacle bondage isn’t quite like rope bondage, but Jaskier’s willing to put the effort in.

“I’m not human,” he says, and lets go of Geralt, teeth sharpening, extra eyes opening, tentacles forming, and for just a second, he lets a little of his true self free. A tiny, tiny slice of what he really is, no more. Hopefully not enough to scare a Witcher.

Interestingly, Geralt’s pupils get, if anything, even wider at that, and Jaskier can smell the lust pouring off him, despite scent not being one of his stronger senses. Geralt likes him, all his freakish appendages and dark, unformed parts.

“Fuck,” Geralt murmurs, voice small and tight, even as he adjusts his bulging cock in his breeches. Jaskier licks his lips, forked tongue and all. “Not at all?”

“Never have been,” Jaskier says, and watches as Geralt reacts like that’s the best pick-up line he’s ever heard. Which, come to think of it, it might be. Geralt doesn’t really get out much, which is a shame, if he’s always this gorgeous when he’s wanting. “I’m the only one of my kind here.”

Later, Jaskier thinks, Geralt will probably have questions, but as it is, he’s very happy Geralt thinks his mouth is better put to use biting bruises into Jaskier’s throat, grinding their bodies together, and eventually, carrying Jaskier up to his room and fucking him until he can almost see eternity.

Strangely, Geralt has fewer questions than Jaskier thinks he should about the whole… great old one thing. Jaskier keeps it as simple as he can, without having too many appendages flopping about (aside from the obvious), but sometimes Geralt will trace his hands over an area almost reverently, and Jaskier will look down to see some extra eyes or an extra mouth. When Geralt looks at him like that, it’s better than every time he’s had a room of worshippers chanting one of his many eldritch names.

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, and it’s more powerful than a thousand shouted curses, because this is a name only renowned because of his Witcher, because of the man whose thighs he settles between, the man who looks at him with such honest want that it makes Jaskier’s hands shake. “Don’t tease.”

It's an order from the mouth of his most devoted supplicant, and Jaskier is powerless to resist, even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t, ever. Geralt gives him everything, and Jaskier still can’t believe how lucky he is to have such a brilliant man focused on him.

“Do you want my mouth, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, smiling as he hovers above the Witcher’s cock. Geralt really is too beautiful for words, even those of the old languages, and Jaskier desperately wants to write odes to the curve of his cock, the heft of his shaft, the way he drips pre-come when he wants something so badly. Jaskier’s mouth waters.

“Which one?” Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier can feel the lust travelling through him, can feel it bursting on his tongue like devouring a dying star, the heat making him swell with desire. He leans down to press a kiss to the tip of Geralt’s cock, licking away the wetness there, before looking up at Geralt through his lashes.

“You want to try one of the others?” Jaskier asks, carefully. It’s not something he’s ever offered to someone before, but, if Geralt wants to, then… Geralt can have him. Geralt can have anything he wants. He raises a hand, opening the mouth there and wiggling his fingers in a way he hopes is seductive. “This one, maybe?”

The noise Geralt makes suggests that, yes, he really does find all this eldritch weirdness attractive, and he wants to try fucking one of Jaskier’s other mouths. The teeth look a bit sharp to Jaskier, but maybe danger is Geralt’s thing.

Jaskier doesn’t actually know how his other mouths work, or where they lead to when he’s in his human form, but that doesn’t seem important when Geralt’s waiting there for him, desperately rocking his hips up. So Jaskier offers his hand, and moans as Geralt’s cock presses into the mouth there, wide and gaping and - if Geralt’s noises are anything to go by - not entirely unskilled. 

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier decides that he never wants to hear anyone else say his name again, because it will be like ashes in their mouths compared to the way the word drips from Geralt’s lips like honey.

Thinking quickly, though he’s fast being ruled by the traitorous urges of his very-human (for the moment) cock, Jaskier presses his other hand between Geralt’s legs, fingers brushing over his hole and secreting their own lubricant. It makes sense, he supposes, because his tentacles can self-lubricate, so why not other parts of him? The mouth on that palm lets its long, forked tongue extend to lap at Geralt’s balls, while Jaskier uses these oh-so-clever human hands to press a finger into his Witcher, feeling himself drawn in like a moon finding the perfect orbit.

“Is this what my Witcher wants?” he asks, and this is a clear plus of extra mouths, because he can keep talking with this one, while the others bring Geralt pleasure. “Feeling my extra mouths on you?”

“Knew you’d be good with your mouth,” Geralt moans, hands grasping and releasing the sheets in heavy handfuls, trying not to tear them with the need to touch, the need to anchor himself to something, left Jaskier utterly devour him. “An extra one or two just means I’ll have to try hard if I want to fuck every hole you’ve got.”

That’s a mental image that Jaskier can’t help but shiver at, feeling the threat and promise of it like the knowledge of aeons to wait under the sea until the stars are right. Geralt is everything, in that moment, and maybe will be in every moment hence, because Jaskier can’t imagine ever wanting anything more than this man who looks at him like all his inhumanity is just more reason to want him.

“I’ll let you,” he says, and it comes out too earnest, too honest, too raw, but the noise Geralt makes sounds like he doesn’t notice. He lets himself press a kiss to Geralt’s thigh with the human mouth, soft and delicate, nothing like the mouths suckling at the Witcher’s cock and balls. “I’ll let you do anything.”

Geralt lets his head drop back at that, groaning as he arches up, fucking Jaskier’s hands faster and deeper. Were Jaskier a slave to this reality, the cock in his hand would have nowhere to go, nowhere to press into, but as it is, he can feel Geralt’s cock fucking into his hand, and into the depth under his skin, where he is a creature of moonlight and memory. If he were to think he has anything so human and base as a soul, he thinks that would be an apt word for what Geralt’s fucking right now. Fucking right into his soul, making himself a tight, warm channel there, and Jaskier’s not sure that channel will ever disappear. Maybe he’s going to exist, forever, as nothing more than something for Geralt to stick his cock into. He thinks he could be happy, being that.  
  
“Close,” Geralt pants, and Jaskier moves his hand, replacing it with the mouth where human logic dictates his sensory organs are. He could probably fuck about with that, but he’ll challenge anyone to think when Geralt of sodding Rivia’s naked body is right in front of them, desperate to be touched. He wants to taste Geralt’s come, wants to allow it to drip off his lips and teeth, and so he slides his mouth down Geralt’s cock, taking him deep, deeper than any human truly could, most likely. It’s not like Jaskier’s pulling out all of his favourites from the Ias Amatoria (his copy is bound in discarded foreskins, which is rather the soft option for a creature like him, but he’s never really liked the taste of human meat, and abhors waste), but he’s aware that he’s trying to make sure that Geralt stays, that Geralt keeps coming back to him, that no one else will ever do. He tells himself he isn’t thinking about anyone specific when that thought crosses his mind, and swallows one last time, letting Geralt spill down his throat.


End file.
